


Seasoned

by longwhitecoats



Series: Staccato [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, BDSM, Food Porn, Kink Negotiation, M/M, neuroatypical character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will comes over for dinner and negotiations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seasoned

Wet footprints trace Will's entrance into Hannibal's foyer. He looks back and grimaces. Like a wet dog, he thinks, only barely well-behaved enough not to shake himself dry on the carpet. He can't help a sheepish expression as Hannibal walks down the hall to greet him.   
  
"You said to let myself in," he says uselessly.   
  
But Hannibal appears unperturbed. His eyes are half-lidded, his gait light and quick; Will might go so far as to say he looks happy. On Hannibal's marble face, in fact, this is a veritable explosion of happiness. A little water in the hall is not going to dampen his evening.  _Dampen_. Oh god, don't let me make that terrible joke, he thinks. There's music playing somewhere; nothing he can identify, he doesn't know opera at all, but it fits with the polished old house and the man who owns it. It's an image. Will looks down at himself: shoe untied, corduroys fraying, wet, and fringed with sand at the hem, shirt covered in dog hair, jacket a size too large (from before he lost all the weight -- he hates his own anxiousness, hates how it steals his appetites from him).   
  
"Sorry," he says, realizing Hannibal has been waiting for him to speak.  
  
But he doesn't reply. Hannibal lifts one long-fingered hand and puts it on Will's shoulder. The touch grounds him; he feels the frenetic energy of the day slough off him like fog rolling away from the Virginia hills, and the sick feeling in his stomach dissipates. He smiles. Hannibal smiles back, and they stand like that for a minute, until Will thinks how funny and awkward it is, and laughs. Hannibal drops his hand, but his smile grows wider.   
  
"It's good of you to come, Will," he says, as if he were the lonely one, the one in need. "Dinner will be ready in five minutes."  
  
"Dinner?" Will says. "Oh, I--"  _I'm not hungry_ , he's about to say, but then his stomach talks for him, burbling loudly. He puts a hand over it. "Sorry." He laughs again. "I guess I didn't realize how hungry I was. I didn't eat much today, now that I think about it."  
  
"I suspected as much," Hannibal says, preceding him down the hall and into the kitchen. The first time Will came in here, he thought the high ceilings were for artistic effect; now he wonders if there's some sort of olfactory magic in the architecture, because he's hit with a wave of food smell when he comes in, rich and hot, and like the proverbial dog, he feels his mouth water. The music is louder here, too; Hannibal likes to soak in his culture all at once, Will supposes. He crosses his arms, trying not to lean over the counter, but intensely curious about what's in the pots.   
  
Hannibal goes to remove something from the oven, where it has been kept warm; he transfers it to a cutting station; he removes a long, beautiful knife from a magnetic wall mount. The smell of spices grows stronger.   
  
"What are we having?" Will asks. From this angle, all he can see is Hannibal's back. He isn't staring, of course, but-- well, actually, he is, it's all right now, he tries to remind himself, he can stare, he can look. He's asked this man to do bodily harm to him, or he's about to ask, anyway. Their relationship is... Well. Their relationship  _is_. It exists. And it probably extends to permission for Will to watch the broad muscles of Hannibal's shoulders move under his crisp oxford as he carves the meat before him. His hands are so big, Will thinks, and finds himself blushing again, and ducking his head--absurd, when Hannibal isn't even looking.  
  
Hannibal begins plating the meat. Garnishes appear from jars, from cabinets, from a sideboard of wildflowers--who the hell keeps a sideboard of  _flowers?_ \--until he turns, two white plates in hand, and says, "Tonight, something traditional: chateaubriand with a reduced sauce of shallots and white wine, seasoned with pine and blackberries. Served with candied sweet potatoes and sprigs of early lavender." Will looks: sure enough, that's the foliage on the side of the plate. The pale purple flowers are unusually beautiful next to the bright glaze of the sweet potatoes, though, and both set off the deep, almost bloody red of the steak. He can't deny it: Hannibal is an artist.   
  
And then he thinks: he's showing that he can be trusted to take care with things that matter. He pays attention to the details. Will opens his mouth, but no sound comes out for a moment. Then he looks Hannibal in the eye, which is difficult (easier than with anyone else, no question, Will's never been this able to talk to someone before, but he still has to think about doing it)--but he needs him to know he means it when he says, "Thank you. This is really-- lovely." The word feels awkward on his tongue, but Hannibal nods and goes into the dining room with their food, and Will tries to remind himself that Hannibal knows what he's getting into, he does, he does, he's known Will long enough not to expect him not to be a complete mess basically all the time. The best thing Will can do is try to surprise him by only being sort of a mess.  
  
So he does that. Dinner is wonderful, amazing, better than anything Will's eaten in days. It's comfort food, he realizes, for both of them: Virginia steak and sweet potatoes for Will, filling and homey; Old World elegance for Hannibal, with a touch of the wilderness as garnish. Will doesn't miss the message. After all, he thinks darkly, he reads people's designs. And Hannibal's design is perfect civility tinged with savagery. Fine china sprinkled with berries and pine needles. He is reminding Will that the path he is on leads into the forest.  
  
He watches Hannibal as he eats: elbows off the table, napkin in his lap, fork held at the correct angle. He is the picture of sophistication.   
  
He looks, Will thinks, very much like a wolf indeed.  
  
And then dinner is over, and they are sitting in a room Will has never seen before: Hannibal's study, perhaps, or a gentleman's smoking parlor, a close room with only two chairs and a single lamp. The walls are lined with books, their spines illegible in the dim light. Will's head is warm and buzzing with good food, gentle conversation, and half a bottle of burgundy. Hannibal carries in two cut-crystal glasses, each filled with two fingers of wheat-golden liquid.  
  
"From your scotch collection?" Will asks.  
  
"Bourbon," Hannibal says. "I regret the name: Pappy Van Winkle. All the same, one of the finest distilleries on the continent. Twenty-three years." He offers Will a glass.  
  
"Thank you," Will says. "You knew I liked bourbon?"  
  
"No. But it gives me pleasure to try out delicacies on you."  
  
Will feels a thrill go through him at that; it's the first thing Hannibal's said all evening that reminds him why he's here. It's a date of sorts, Will supposes, but he knows really Hannibal's just putting him at ease. He's grateful, not for the first time, for Hannibal's sedate manner. Most people try to put Will at ease by flapping their hands and making a lot of noise and saying very pointedly  _Be calm! Just relax! Isn't this relaxing!_  --which makes Will want to hide under a rug. Hannibal just... lets him be. He blows out a breath. He takes a sip of the bourbon.   
  
"Wow," he says, eyebrows shooting up. "That really is good."  
  
"I'm pleased you like it," Hannibal says, taking a sip from his own glass. The alcohol has no visible effect on him. Or perhaps it does; his posture has changed: he is spread wide in his chair, expansive, loose in the limbs. Despite having eaten a sizeable quantity of steak, he looks ravenous.   
  
It makes Will tremble, and he feels the familiar tightness in his lower body that means the beginnings of arousal.  
  
"So," Hannibal says, perhaps realizing that Will certainly isn't going to be the one to force the issue, "I believe we are here for a negotiation."  
  
Will stalls. "I think you said you had an offer for me?"  
  
There's a pause; Hannibal's eyes glint in the lamplight. Is he angry? No, Will realizes, amused. Considering what to do with Will's embarrassment, he supposes.   
  
"I have an offer for you," he says then, and he drops his gaze. Will hadn't realized until that moment that Hannibal never looks him anywhere but in the eyes. Now Hannibal is sizing him up, deliberately tracing over every inch of his body, and it's terrifying. He feels small, ashamed, and simultaneously too hot for his clothes. He wants to take off his sport coat, but there's nowhere to put his glass. He fumbles with his collar. Hannibal says, "I would like very much to help you through your troubles, Will. This is a selfish offer as much as a kind one. There are reasons why a man like me chooses this profession." His eyes flick back to Will's, and Will swallows, thinking about those reasons -- about what kinds of men, he knows what kinds, go into law enforcement, journalism, psychology. He looks so carefully controlled. There's a sprig of lavender, Will notices, in his jacket pocket.  _God_. How long does he spend thinking up these details? And then-- Will shudders-- how long will he spend planning... this?  
  
Hannibal is watching Will's face; he can tell, surely he can tell, Will thinks. Surely he can see everything I'm thinking. "You want to help me get better," Will says, incredulous. "Am I still here for therapy?"  
  
"You know as well as I do," Hannibal says calmly, "what is and is not permitted in a therapist's office."  
  
Will is conscious of his own heartbeat. He takes another drink of the bourbon. "Okay," he says. It feels like the floor is falling away under him, but he forces himself to think about this. He wants this. He just hates talking about it. And then it hits him. "You like this," Will says. "This part of it. You like talking about it."  
  
Hannibal tilts his head, offers a half-smile: that means Will almost has it right, but not quite. He babbles on, "You do, though. The-- the ceremony of it-- don't get me wrong, it's part of what makes you so irresistible"--  _irresistible_ , did he really mean to say that? --"you like watching me squirm when I try to talk about this, and, oh, I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot. You don't like talking about this." Will coughs and runs a hand over his face. Then he smiles; he can't help it. Of course this is why Hannibal likes him. "You like  _listening_."  
  
Hannibal nods, eyes narrowing in pleasure. "As I said," he says. "There are reasons."  
  
Will sighs. "Okay," he says, grinning, feeling silly, but at least understanding the situation. So that's what Hannibal is getting out of this. He should have known, the other guy liked it too, liked to listen to Will's screams and moans and shudders. At least it means Hannibal likes who he really is. Likes the mess. "Then I'll talk." He takes a drink and sits back in the chair.   
  
"When I was seeing--him, when--before, at the club, most of what we did was simple. I mean. Straightforward. I'd go in and say, I want this tool and this many strokes, hard. Or three soft and two hard, or thirty, or whatever. Sometimes he'd negotiate for a different--implement. He had things I didn't know existed. I'd get up and lean on a--they're called St. Andrew's crosses, you know them?" Hannibal merely nods; Will can't tell if that means he's heard of them or seen them or used them, that's part of the mystery, maybe, part of the power Hannibal is holding over him, and Will isn't sure if he's supposed to do that (just like he's pretty sure they weren't supposed to have alcohol while doing this, but he'll be damned if he's going to pick a particular kind of being  _non compos mentis_  as better than any other, and it isn't like sobriety means he's of sound mind, and he feels calmer now), but-- god, but this is going straight to Will's cock, he's so hard, just saying these things in front of Hannibal, he's hot all over. "S-so. I'd lean on one, and he'd--"  
  
"How did it feel?" Hannibal says, interrupting.  
  
"What?" Will says, startled that Hannibal would interrupt him. He never does, when they're in the office. But the rules are different here, Will senses, he's not an equal anymore. Or--he is an equal, maybe. But Hannibal is beginning to flex his muscles, metaphorically speaking, to rouse himself out of his hiding place in the woods and size up his opponent.  
  
His prey, Will can't help thinking. Fuck.  
  
"How did it feel," Hannibal says, and he's swishing the bourbon around in the glass ever so slightly, "when you laid yourself out to be beaten?"  
  
"Oh," Will says, and it comes out more like a moan than a word. His lips are dry. "It--I liked that. I suppose. I-- it was embarrassing. I would take off my shirt--or, most of my clothes, actually. I'd fold them. Put them at the foot of the cross. And then I'd face the wood, and brace myself."  
  
"And then he would hit you," Hannibal says. His face remains set, but Will thinks he can see--no, he can definitely see that Hannibal is as viscerally affected by this conversation as he is. Viscerally. From  _viscera_. Guts.  
  
"Yes," Will says. "Then he would hit me. And. Afterward, he would, he, sometimes he'd run his hands over me. Where he'd hit me." Hannibal purses his lips. "Which I liked. But mostly--not because he was touching me. Because it felt--it was just very intense, I guess."  
  
"Perhaps it was the combined sensation," Hannibal says quietly, "of kindness and cruelty."  
  
Will shudders. He looks at his lap. "Yes," he agrees. "There was something--yes. When somebody has beaten you like that--and sometimes he beat me really hard, I couldn't sleep on my back for a few days--you just, you can take whatever they give you. You can keep yourself together through the pain. Endure it. But then if they're kind to you... you just go to pieces."   
  
"And after being kind to you," Hannibal says, "did he ever beat you a second time?"  
  
"Ah," Will says, and this time he can't hide it, his breath is coming faster, his hand almost involuntarily reaches down to hide the swelling of his cock. He's gasping, practically. "No," he manages. "He would just-- help me down. Make sure I could walk. Then-- I'd go."  
  
Hannibal turns away, examining the color of the remaining bourbon in his glass. He drains it. He gets up to place the glass on a low end table near the wall, sweeping up Will's empty glass in the same motion; their fingers brush. Will shudders. "I am not sure I like that I remind you of this fellow," Hannibal says. "He sounds to me like a butcher."  
  
"That's not--" Will says, unsure how he fell into this particular trap. Hannibal knows Will doesn't think of him that way; how could he? His brain feels thick with the sweetness of the bourbon. They shouldn't be doing this, should they, but Will can't stop. "That isn't why you reminded me of him."  
  
"Oh?" Hannibal says, turning.   
  
"It's-- god, sorry, but it's like I could just smell it on you. You have that same-- poise. Assurance. The kind of reserve that means patience instead of emptiness. I just knew it when I talked to you. And--" He stops. He isn't sure about this part.  
  
Hannibal is watching him. Patient. He is definitely that. "Go on."  
  
Will closes his eyes. "The way you looked at me." He says. He opens them. He looks at Hannibal. "Hungry."  
  
Hannibal smiles, a wide, wide smile, lips just barely closed, and Will can't decide whether he is desperate or terrified to see Hannibal's teeth.   
  
"It's power," he says. "That's what you smell. You have a nose for it. You were right. I am like your friend. We are patient and powerful men."  
  
Then he walks over to Will and stands in front of him, in front of the chair. Will looks up. Hannibal is so tall.   
  
"Come," Hannibal says, and offers his hands. Will takes them, the feeling of so much skin on skin electric, even just palm to palm. Hannibal leads him from the room.  
  
Will realizes he's drunk too late. The hallways spin around him, staircases, and it's cold, suddenly. They're in a cellar. There's no smell of rot or dankness; like the rest of the house, it's meticulously cleaned. If anything, it smells a bit of bleach and wood soap. He's dizzy, wondering if there was anything else in the bourbon, but then when was the last time he slept? Why can he never remember sleeping, but always remember his dreams?  
  
"Will," Hannibal's voice says, close to his ear, "steady now. You have options."  
  
"I," Will says, but he forgets what he was about to say, because Hannibal turns on a switch, and red light floods the dungeon.   
  
There's a St. Andrew's cross. There's a suspension frame. There's a set of benches of some kind, upholstered in smooth dark leather and dripping with straps and buckles. There's a metal table, like an operating table, gleaming and empty. There are half-curtained racks of floggers, canes, ropes, leashes, something that looks like an elongated speculum. Will points at that last object nervously, all his overwhelmed terror and arousal somehow focused into a single question. "Is--what is that?"  
  
Hannibal walks over to it, lifts it. "Curtain brace," he says. "I keep meaning to fix it." He hooks it back around the drapery. Will starts laughing.   
  
"Oh my god," he says. He feels tears of relief in his eyes. He's giddy, he doesn't know why. What did he think would happen down here? He's just drunk and tired, overwhelmed with emotion and lust, and with the fear of disappointing this man he's grown so attached to. He sputters, giggling. "God. I'm sorry. This is--amazing."   
  
Hannibal looks indulgent, thank goodness. He seems to be enjoying Will's extremes tonight. "Thank you. I cleaned up a bit before you came over. It hasn't seen much use recently, I'm afraid."  
  
"So you're an old hand at this," Will says. "God."  
  
"Let me offer you my diagnosis," Hannibal says, not quite in response, walking back toward Will. "I believe that you are only incidentally interested in what happens to your body."  
  
"Oh?" Will says, raising his eyebrows. "So you're not interested in my body?"  
  
Hannibal fixes him with a stern look. He is standing very close. Will can smell dinner on him--smoke, brown sugar, lavender. "I am very interested in your body, Will. And I am most interested in it because of what it can do to your mind."  
  
There's only a few inches between them. Will wants to bridge that distance, wants to touch him, but at the same time he wants more to hear what Hannibal will say next -- proving his point, he supposes. "All right," he says. "You're right. My mind is as much a part of me as my body. More so."  
  
"Are you sexually aroused by shame, Will?" Hannibal says, and the groan that escapes Will's mouth leaves little doubt of his answer. But Hannibal knows the game now, and Will knows that he knows, and Hannibal will wait and make him say it.  
  
"Yes," Will says, meeting Hannibal's eyes, and Hannibal reaches a hand up and cups Will's face.  
  
"And when you are being beaten," Hannibal says, almost whispering now, "do you imagine that you deserve it, or that you are being punished unjustly?"  
  
It's a hard question. It's so hard to think. Will feels like he's floating, as if his entire body is suspended from Hannibal's fingertips. "I guess," he says, "I liked it when--both," he admits. "I deserved it. But I liked the idea that. He was," and Will can't finish the sentence, he can't say this to Hannibal. He respects Hannibal. This is his friend.  
  
"Go on," Hannibal says, and he nudges Will's lips with his own, sending shivers through Will's body and making his mouth feel white-hot.   
  
"Hannibal," Will hisses, but there's nothing for it, so he swallows and says it:  
  
"I felt ashamed," he said, "because I felt like a bad person for holding all those thoughts in my head. And--I wanted to be punished."  
  
"But," Hannibal says.  
  
"I wanted," Will says, and Hannibal is so close to kissing him now, so close, his body is icy-hot, shaking, "I wanted to be punished by someone who could do what I could do. Someone worse. Someone who could--be a killer."  
  
Hannibal kisses him then, and it's such a relief, it's like a collapse at the end of a long run through the forest, and the smell of pine rises up around him as he tastes and tastes, and he lets go.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe how many people have already started reading this series!! I'm quite new to this wonderful fandom and a bit nervous -- thank you all so much for your kind comments!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Seasoned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3315914) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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